Body Language
by One Foot Forward
Summary: Clarke and Bellamy drabbles; currently: [awe]
1. anticipation

**AN:** another little drabble series, because what the hell, I can't stop

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"We could go in from the back." Raven suggests, drawing an imaginary circle around the figures on the board.

Almost immediately Clarke shakes her head. "It wouldn't work. The Lokota have sentries positioned here," she moves the small iron figurine to the back of the map, reaches for the thumbnail and slides it to the adjacent spot "and here."

Bellamy nods with her. "It would be a massacre to try a frontal attack for the same reason."

They're resting in some shit hole of a campout – Clarke had read _Wu-Mart_ on the front sign but as far as Bellamy was concerned it was an abandoned warehouse that creaked far too often and didn't have any useful resources at _all_, unless you counted this shitty game board they were trying to plan an attack on – with forty-somewhat children sleeping on linoleum floors within eyesight. Monty had cracked open his last store of moonshine and was passed out in the corner, Jasper curled around his ankles, so it's only him, Clarke, Raven, and Spacewalker up at the moment.

"What about that move we used at the Sauk camp?" Clarke says, frowning at what was either a dog or a horse, the piece too rusty to really need a distinction. "Where we had the one group to draw them out, and another to sneak in?"

She pushes the dog/horse in one direction, along with the iron, and points at the opening. Bellamy licks his lips and runs his teeth along the bottom of his tongue, considering it.

"We would need more ammo." He admits, glancing up at her. "That only worked because of Raven's little parlour trick."

Raven frowns. "Excuse you, that wasn't just some _parlour trick_, that was highly explosive aluminum and chlorine compounds that I scrapped together out of thin fucking air and it worked, didn't it?"

Finn reaches over and rubs his hand over her shoulders, which is just too patronizing for Bellamy to watch so he turns his gaze back to Clarke. She's staring at the map – well, it's more of a crappy marked up mess of what once was a menu board, but _semantics_ – and is picking at the fraying edges of the damn thing, eyebrows scrunched together. He knows this means she's tuned them out, because there are bigger battles then whatever the fuck is going on between Spacewalker and Raven, post-Sauk (which was the last camp at which Raven could walk without a cane) and that is what the hell they were going to do about the hostage situation.

(It was kind of fucked up that they _had_ a hostage situation at all, because normally between him and her they can keep track of their dwindling numbers, but sometimes the kids got frisky and thought wandering off was a good idea, especially since they've been travelling for the last two months, from city to city, and it's honestly just been too long since the last crisis, so of _course_ they need another reminder of how easily shit can hit the fan. He knows that Clarke's taking it harder than most, only because Tristan had been something of a nurse to her doctor, had all but imprinted on her, following her around and spouting _Ms. Griffin_ this and had even once called her mom (not that Clarke had actually meant to tell him that). He was barely fourteen, so Bellamy hadn't worried too much, but here they were, and hindsight's twenty-twenty and all that.)

He watches as Clarke shifts in her spot on the floor, her hands drifting to rub against her pant leg, toying with a loose thread on the inseam. She's biting her lip and then she's looking back up to Raven. They only have a little bit of light at this point, using the faint shine of some sticks that when you crack them in half they glow, so he can't quite make out the look on her face.

"So we don't have the resources for anything that _bright. _How about something that just makes a lot of noise?" She asks.

"What type of noise?"

Clarke clasps her hands together. "Something like gunfire."

Almost immediate Bellamy catches on, because of _course_ a decoy doesn't need to be real. "We could have a group with the guns, run them along the perimeter."

"A false attack?" Finn grins. "That is the least violent option I've heard from the two of you all month."

Ever since the rescue from Mount Weather, where Clarke gained a hardened shell and tighter lips, Finn's included her in his jabs about _peace_ and _priorities_. Bellamy likes to think it has only made her more secure in her choices, and besides, he likes her better with bloody hands and a feral smile.

"Well Raven," he says, "can you manage that?"

She's looking around the room, despite being able to only see to the nearest shelf, bereft of pretty much everything but games and model airplanes. "Yeah," she says, slowly, "I think I can get something together."

Clarke leans forward. "How long?"

"A day, maybe two?"

He nods. "Perfect. We'll get you a group together in the morning, scavenge some supplies."

She doesn't say thanks, but two weeks ago she could have grabbed all the shit she needed herself, so he keeps his mouth shut.

"Miller can go with you two," he continues, gesturing to the unhappy couple, "for the decoy, and I'll take a rescue group in behind. We have a pretty reasonable guess that they're holding Tristan here," he points to the top hat, "so we can risk attacking close to dusk, keep things as confusing as possible."

The hat's positioned in the bottom left quarter of what they think the Lokota camp looks like, so it's a daunting run, but a necessary one.

Clarke meets his gaze. "I'm going with you."

She can't stop moving, but he thinks it's probably only one fifth nerves, and the rest is eager bloodshed on behalf of one of their own. "You sure?"

She cants her head and grins at him, and it's all teeth, and also a massive turn-on, not that he tells her that.

"Yeah," she says, "I'm sure."

"Alright," he matches her smile, "then we start in the morning."

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	2. awe

The hardest part about trekking across a huge fucking mass of land is the heat. It blisters the skin, sunburns turning into a real concern that no one but Clarke ever thought to deal with, and it dehydrates them, which is some type of irony he's sure, that the farther they move from bodies of water the more desperately they need some.

The next thing is that by the time they are in the middle of said trek, maybe a month or so, there is nothing to see but desert, more desert, and oh yeah, desert.

Clarke reminds him that this whole journey is necessary, that most of the tribes they want to avoid are on the East coast, and he knows, obviously, but it's harder for him because Clarke's got her medical disasters to attend to, and all he can do is stare into the plains and look out for the next town. There aren't exactly a lot of threats to defend against when they can see them coming from literally miles away, and he's just honestly really bored.

Like, he's even resorted to playing that stupid 'Never-Have-I-Ever' game that half the camp uses to keep motivated, even though he loses a lot, because what hasn't he done at this point in his life, really.

(He hasn't killed them all, he thinks, hasn't found Octavia yet, is even moving in the wrong direction, which he tries not to focus on too much. He also hasn't slept with anyone in a little over a month, which is a shame, but he hasn't had to yell at anyone in at least two, so there's some sort of consolation.)

But Bellamy doesn't really _like _losing, so about mid-afternoon he drops to the back of the congo-line that is forty-seven teenagers, to where Clarke is drifting farther and farther behind. Regardless of the mood she's in they always have fun bitching at each other, and it's been a slow day, he knows she doesn't _hope_ for injuries, but she's probably bored too.

"Problems Princess?"

She's taking slower strides than most, and he realizes almost immediately that he can't see her canteen anywhere, even though they'd raided some supply store earlier this year and gotten one for everybody. It would be just like her to have given it away to some sop with too-big eyes and a trembling bottom lip, the accusation ready on his tongue as she scoffs at her nickname.

But she doesn't look tired when she glances up at him and grins. "Yeah, everything's fine. It's just uh…nothing."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Really." She insists, and he falls into stride with her.

Miller's in the front, Jasper and Monty right behind him, because they have the best sense of direction, and while Bellamy can look up and think _west _he doesn't always trail in a straight line, okay, and Clarke brings up the rear because she can spot the injured. But she isn't looking ahead, wide eyes trailing along the scrub bushes around them, so he bumps his shoulder into hers and holds out his canteen.

She takes it and he thinks he's going to have to find some more at the next town they stumble across. It's been easier pickings the farther they move, and for this reason alone he can continue going with the belief that this just _might_ be the right move, maybe.

Clarke's gaze drifts away again and he asks, "Seriously, what are you looking at?"

She snaps back to him. "Uhm – "

"Clarke." She smiles. "_Clarke_."

"Okay, it's just – "

But she doesn't get a chance to finish, movement out of the corner of his eye catching his attention. His first thought is of that tribe maybe ten days back that had _seemed_ peaceful but who knew these days, and he goes to pull out his machete (a dumb tribute, a very lame, overtly-sentimental tribute) –

– only to stop short at the sight before him.

He feels his jaw drop open, slightly, and Clarke laughing somewhere behind him, but he can't turn away because _holy shit, are those flying_ _snakes?_

"Yeah," she whispers, chuckling still, and they've both stopped moving, "I know."

Little winged reptiles that are _yup_, snakes, or were at one point, are hopping in and out of the bushes behind them, not _quite_ flying, but looking like maybe they could be. They make practically no noise however, which is probably why no one's picked up on them, and overall it kind of reminds Bellamy of those jumping beans that Jasper found a year or so back, that when you boil 'em they leap at your face.

"Are they dangerous?" He asks.

"Dunno," Clarke admits, and now she's standing next to him, "but they've only been popping up _after_ us, so I don't think they'll attack."

"You don't think."

He turns to her then, for just a second, and he knows he must have on some dumb wide-eyed, slack-jawed face because she laughs right at him. And like, yeah, the desert's been dull so far, the same fucking patch of shitty plantation the entire day, but he wasn't exactly asking for _this_ as a reprieve.

As if reading his mind (and who knows, they've been leading together so long that sometimes he thinks she is) Clarke lays a hand on his arm, the one still attached to his machete, and pulls him back. "C'mon," she says, smiling still, "if we don't get moving then everyone else is going to notice. And then we'll never get going again."

It's the truth, so he allows himself to be led, but not before one last glance at scene before him.

He shakes his head. _Earth_, man.


End file.
